


Presto Tempo

by TA_Hybrid



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Kidnapping, Music, One off Scenes, Plot Bunnies - Freeform, Plot Bunnies free to Good Home, Scenes going Nowhere, Storms, ideas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-08 01:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TA_Hybrid/pseuds/TA_Hybrid
Summary: Short snatches of scenes and ideas that ultimately go nowhere and don't even count as oneshots. Free to observe and use.





	1. Saving Song

He can barely hear them screaming at him. He can barely hear the roar of the crowd over the rushing of the wind around him. Can barely pick out even a single voice, it all just blurs together into a howl, a scream. And his hands curl, phalanges pressing on the strings of the guitar even as the wind shrieks. He’s in the eye of the tempest really.

The wind rattling everything, a shuddering rumble rocking the ground. A torrential downpour breaking over him, water like a wall slamming the ground and he hisses. Curling himself protectively around the instrument. Ahead two bright glowing orbs open. Like Pepita’s eyes glaring out through the darkness and finding him. People scream, people shriek, crying out words he can’t hear and he shivers.

Cold and soaked to the bone. Clothing draping, clinging and wrapping around his bones, hanging off his frame. Somehow the guitar isn’t drenched. Somehow he moves his hands, phalanges curling across the strings. And in a swift movement he strokes down. The chord rings out loud and clear.

Breaking apart the storm. Like a curtain it pushes back. Leaving him standing there shivering in a single beam of sunlight. Feet firmly grounded as he raises his head and meets those staring eyes. It’s like a dream really, and he focuses on keeping his fingers moving. Playing those notes, slowly raising the tempo. Faster, faster, it has to be played in _presto_. Around him the storm wails, the roar of the downpour hammering against the ground. Providing a drumbeat that rocks through him as he begins to sway. Pushed and battered by the wind. Something unfolds from the darkness, teeth flash and he closes his eyes.

_Don’t look, don’t look._

_You are the music_.

He has to play, get those notes to dance, to sing into the storm. There’s a crash, a howl, someone screams, and he keeps his eyes closed as heat rises and the world shudders. He can’t afford to stumble on these notes, he can’t afford to stop, he can’t afford even one note out of the tempo. He sucks in a breath, the slightest hitch in the storm, and he opens his mouth.

It’s his best grito. A bellow into the darkness.

Now he moves. Feet tapping in time with the rocking, the rain eases, drawing back, the music carries him. It’s like walking up a stairway as the music carries him higher and finally those lyrics are drawn out. He can finally sing, a carol into the air. A tune that he can’t really place the name of, are the words even real?

_Aliquam nunc fallat Requiem_

_grandinem super oculos tuos_

_Oportet fallat requiesce_

_hoc fallat antiquum_

They sound like nonsense to his own ears, but around him, he can feel the wind die. He can hear the purr of the creature and it feels safe to open his eyes again, gently slowing the beat. And pretending he isn’t high up above the ground standing on nothing. Nothing but visible music. But he doesn’t let himself falter. He can’t let himself falter.

_Nunc purus Tota silentium quieti_

_ex tempestate requievit in silentium_

_Et nunc cantare canticum vestris quietem, silentium_

_silentio silentio praeteribo praeter vos mundus_

He continues to sing, and the eyes follow him. Left, right, swaying as he leans just slightly forwards. Offering a smile to them. The storm has all but died now, easing up and overhead the sun peaks through, shining down on them. Shining on him like a spotlight.

_ferte haec verba cecidit_

_Verba haec caeli habitare_

_que nunc actum est bene nunc_

_Hoc autem cantabo iuvante sequi antiquis_

There’s just one last verse, and the spotlight eyes droop, blinking slowly. One last verse, he know this, instinctively, as he drops it down. Lowering his voice, and following it down, the storm quiet. Only his guitar left, only his voice. Only him.

_Tu fecisti silentium requiescerem_

_Nunc autem silentium quieti, et cor planeta scriptor_

_silentium, silentium, silentium ut etiam hic tibi_

_iuvante sequi semper et erunt apud te_

The last few notes ring out, and he stands there for a few moments. Waiting, almost dizzy with a ringing in his cranium. Words he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand fading from his mouth, and he finally collapses.

“Héctor!”


	2. Kidnapped

The hotel room is destroyed.

The bed’s turned over, sheets and blankets sprawled on the floor, the small table is overturned, there’s broken pottery on the floor and tracked dirt from the formerly potted plant. The plate that had been left out from breakfast is smashed and there are scuff marks almost everywhere. It’s destroyed, signs of either an emotion fuelled rampage or-

He stands in the doorway and forces himself to just breathe.

Take a breath, and count. His eyes scan the scene, searching for any signs of his travelling companion. He steps into the ruined room, awkwardly avoiding the dirt from the broken plant pot.

“Héctor?” his voice is low, quiet and far more nervous sounding than it should be. A rushing blaze goes through him for a moment at the tentativeness in his voice before it leaves. He steps further in, looking around for any sign at all, their suitcases are both still there, as are their Guitar Cases, knocked back, with Héctor’s case lying open. _The guitar is untouched._ “Héctor?” he calls again, a prickle down his spine.

Where is he?

He’d gone back to their room whining about not feeling the best and now--

There’s glass on the floor.

He freezes, before his eyes follow it up to the window. _There’s glass on the floor_. But also, he realizes too many footprints in the dirt. Footprints that don’t match his own, or _Héctor’s_ a stranger’s prints. Possibly belonging to-

“Héctor!” he snaps around, searching just slightly more frantically. He freezes when he sees a scrap of paper, a small note. He takes a deep breath, frowning as he strides over to it. He doesn’t touch it, only staring, feeling the blood drain away as he registers the words.

_You’re welcome to your fame. We’ll keep the songwriter._

_-Dingo_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just quickly written based on a dream I had back on the 26 of November last year. I unfortunately don't have all that much Context. But Dingo was so named for the Dingo mask _they_ wore. And kidnapped Héctor after overhearing some of Ernesto's muttering in a bar. 
> 
> Anyone who wants to take this concept and run with it, do so. And please link me okay. I'd love to read a further exploration of it.


	3. Delusion

“What did you do to him?” the teenager's voice is a howl as he’s grabbed by the two guards closest to him. Restrained before he could even get near to Ernesto. The músico arches a single browridge staring as the teen struggles, swearing as he’s held. “What did you do, you barstado! Where is he?”

“I am quite sure I do not know what you mean. Where is who?”

“Héctor! What did you do to him? You barstado! Usted suciedad! Cabrón!” he watches the boy kick and struggle, a flicker of amusement going through his eyes before he lowers his head slightly and shakes it.

“You poor, poor delusional boy. Still chasing that are you?” he speaks and the boy stiffens, green eyes looking up with such confusion. “How could I have done anything to a man who doesn’t exist?”

“D-doesn’t.. You! You! Canalla!” he shakes his head as the boy screams, each insult getting more and more creative than the last. Until finally the boy runs out of steam, panting and glaring at him. He takes a sip from his glass.

“Lo siento niño. But you could go and ask anyone. There is no Héctor...” he turns around, letting a smile curl across his face. “Pobrecito niño... dreaming up a sibling to escape the loss of your own.”

“Qué?! No! No!”

“Guards, take care of our guest. He certainly isn’t well.”

“No! No! Not again!” the teen howls as he’s dragged away, taken to be thrown out once more. He stands there for just a little longer. Glad that at least this time there were no other guests here aside himself. No party this weekend. He finishes his glass, setting it on the table beside him and in one smooth movement pulls up to his feet.

It’s not a lie.

He could ask anyone, and there would be _no Héctor_. Not anymore. Not where most people would look and ask anyway, and as for the others. Well people vanish all the time down there. It would only be expected. He sweeps imaginary dust off himself and walks back down through the halls of his mansion.

His estate. Until he comes to a back room. With only one more breath he pushes the door open. The room is practically empty aside a bed, a chair, and a machine, something he has been assured will keep his _guest_ asleep until he’s ready to awaken him. With only a few smooth steps he strides across the room to the bedside. There he settles into the chair, and stares for a long moment at the familiar figure lying on the bed, a plastic mask settled over his face.

“No... there is no Héctor.” he whispers, a hand snaking around to gently, almost reverently brush those bangs ever so slightly back from the sleepers face. “Not out there.”


End file.
